


Delayed Reaction

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Impaired Judgment (and other excuses) [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 15:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13526931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: Like, this would be his first date. If it was one. Which it obviously isn’t. Marcus tries to show off or be nice or whatever he’s doing right now, and Jared’s sitting here making it a goddamn date in his head, just because that grin Marcus probably practiced a thousand times is actually pretty attractive.He’s feeling really young right now. Young and stupid.





	Delayed Reaction

Marcus drives way too fucking fast. Jared expected that — Jared would have put _money_ on that, disinclined to gamble or not — but it’s one thing to know it and a whole other thing to be in the car with him while he’s doing it.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Jared yells when they get on the highway.

“What?” Marcus says. He’s got one hand on the wheel, which is definitely not okay, wind blowing his hair around. It’s dazzlingly bright, so Jared has to squint to see him, let alone the road in front of them, and he wishes he’d thought to bring sunglasses of his own.

“Slow the fuck down!” Jared yells. Why did he agree to do this? What the _fuck_ was he thinking? At least he let Raf know what to say to his family when he inevitably dies in a fiery wreck. Ghost Jared won’t have to be haunted by his little sister using his TV.

“I’m not even going fast!” Marcus says. Or yells back, actually, because it’s hard to hear him over the wind in his ears, which emphatically proves him wrong there.

Jared laughs. It comes out a little hysterical, and in silent answer, Marcus points at the speedometer. And 120 is fast, but not nearly as fast as Jared thought he was going. Jared was thinking ‘imminent danger of ticket or car crash’ fast, not ‘will only get ticketed if cops need to reach quota’ fast. 

He suddenly gets the appeal of convertibles, if driving just a little fast makes you feel like you’re fucking flying down the highway, even though the wind muffles everything, _becomes_ everything, and if Jared had a hat on it’d be long gone by now. His hair’s probably a fucking disaster. His heart rate definitely is.

Marcus slows down a little, ticking down to 114, which probably wouldn’t lure a cop even if they _did_ have to reach quota. It’s actually slower than Jared’s parents drive, if not slower than Jared does, because if he gets a ticket driving, his parents would kill him and take his driving privileges away. Not worth it to shave a couple minutes off a trip.

It still feels fast, and Jared doesn’t know if that’s the convertible or the fact he knows that Marcus has gotten in a wreck before, doesn’t trust him the way he trusts his parents.

He keeps his hands balled tight in his lap, wishing the car had a top and that whole ‘panic because you’re being driving by a lunatic handle’ (his mom keeps insisting it’s to help people who have trouble getting out of the seat without assistance, but Jared’s pretty sure he nailed its true purpose with panic handle). 

Marcus pulls off the highway into an area Jared doesn’t know very well. It’s not a stupidly expensive one, which Jared might have expected, and not downtown either. Jared has basically no clue why they’re there. Marcus drives slow enough on surface streets that the wind is a presence but not the _only_ presence, and Jared starts to feel the heat again.

“You hungry?” Marcus asks.

“What’re we having?” Jared asks, grasping for obnoxiously fancy foods. His sister’s basically obsessed with the food channel for some reason — fuck knows she doesn’t actually cook anything herself — so it isn’t too hard. “Foie gras? Oysters? Kobe beef? Truffle butter? Caviar?”

Marcus wrinkles his nose. “Caviar’s gross,” he says. 

Of course he knows that. Of course he does. 

“I was thinking of grabbing some pizza, actually,” Marcus says. “I mean, since you seemed to enjoy mine so much.”

If Jared is stuck eating mushrooms on his pizza because he was incapable of resisting the urge to antagonize Marcus, he swears to God.

The pizza place they pull up in front of is blessedly normal looking. Like, it’s no Domino’s, but there’s no pretensions to it, and it’s clearly meant for takeout and delivery only. Jared’s just waiting for Marcus to order a Canadian, maybe with a shit-eating little smirk that lets Jared know Marcus noticed Jared’s disgust that day. Thankfully, though, he asks Jared what he wants on it before he orders it to go, and doesn’t say anything about the suspicious lack of mushrooms in Jared’s suggestions. 

“So are we eating in your car or what?” Jared asks.

Marcus looks comically appalled. Jared was kind of wondering if he actually kept his car immaculate or if he got it cleaned recently, and he guesses he has his answer there. Jared would not have guessed Bryce Marcus for a neat freak. “I know a place,” he says.

“That sounds ominous,” Jared says.

Marcus rolls his eyes. “C’mon,” he says. “It’s great.”

Jared sits with the pizza practically burning a hole in his thighs through his shorts on the drive to wherever Marcus’ mystery place is. He’s changed his mind. Convertibles are stupid. Or maybe normal convertibles aren’t, but two seaters, where you can’t even stick the food in the backseat so you don’t have to keep shifting a pizza box in your lap because you’re frying either your balls or the bare skin of the bottom of your thighs? Stupid as shit.

He’s basically condemned himself to burn for eternity when Marcus pulls into a parking lot. There isn’t anything really _there_ , except a lot of green, a brightly coloured playground, a dusty looking baseball diamond fringed by soccer fields.

“A park?” Jared asks sceptically.

“C’mon,” Marcus says.

“Seriously, a _park_?” Jared repeats, but gets out of the car when Marcus does, thankful to be able to get the pizza off his lap. 

Marcus has a Flames blanket in the trunk he gets out after he pops the roof back on. If Jared wasn’t a Flames fan — one that may or may not have a Flames blanket of his own at home — he’d be judging him pretty hard right now. He’s still kind of judging him anyway. Fuck knows Jared doesn’t have a Hitmen blanket hanging around. Maybe because they presumably don’t make them. But still.

Marcus leads the way past the playground, a soccer field full of kids too young to really play an actual organized game other than ‘everybody scream and run after the ball’. The place was bigger than it looked from the road, and eventually it gets less park like and more actual nature like, capping at a stretch of trees bordering a stream, a little sluggish seeming in the heat, that would probably only go up to their calves.

“One of the guys showed me this place rookie year,” Marcus says, spreading the blanket on the grass. “Nice, huh?”

It is weirdly nice. It’s still hot out, but the sun’s starting its slow trip down, and with it the humidity’s gone from punishing to irritating. The grass is dry looking, the kind that prickles your skin when you sit on it, but with the blanket set down you barely notice.

“So your big idea was pizza and a park?” Jared asks, after he’s inhaled his first two slices. Priorities. Eating the pizza while it’s still hot first, then chirping. Because seriously, pizza and a park? That is like the most low-key low cost thing ever. Something Jared could easily do, if maybe not drive there in like a bajillion dollar car. So much for showing off.

“I like pizza,” Marcus says. “Who doesn’t like pizza?”

It’s a good point, even from someone who voluntarily ruins his pizza with mushrooms.

“Raf doesn’t,” Jared says. He’s still not over that. He guesses everyone has to have at least one major flaw. “He says it’s too greasy.”

“Why do you hang around that guy?” Marcus says. “He’s so—”

He makes this flapping gesture. Jared has no idea what it’s supposed to represent, but he’s not going to ask. Marcus has exchanged like ten words with Raf, Jared doesn’t think his opinion’s particularly valid. 

“He’s like the only nice guy at camp,” Jared says. “Including me.”

“He’s not the only one,” Marcus protests.

Jared snorts. “You are not trying to tell me you’re a nice guy, are you?” he asks. “Because I will laugh in your face. Like, this is me, straight up preparing to burst out laughing and also remind you you punched a fucking Oilers fan.”

Jared cannot _believe_ he is defending an Oilers fan. Not that he is, exactly, or at least not specifically. Punching people is bad. Even if they’re Oilers fans. Oilers fandom is not just provocation for physical assault. Merciless chirping? Totally. Punch in the face? Maybe not. 

“I’m nice to you,” Marcus mumbles. At least, Jared thinks that’s what he says. 

Jared can’t even argue that, though he wants to. “Yeah,” Jared says, kind of at a loss. “Uh, why?”

Marcus shrugs a little, which doesn’t exactly clear that up.

“That really clears things up,” Jared says.

“Shut up and eat your pizza,” Marcus mutters.

“I already did,” Jared says, but he grabs another slice. 

He eats two more while Marcus rambles about his time in Spokane and the differences between the WHL and the NHL and the whole adjustment process. Jared would think he was nervous, the way he’s talking, this kind of fast babble that Jared definitely recognises from personal experience when _he’s_ nervous. Though for all Jared knows this is his usual mode, and sulky sullen was just as a result of being forced to coach a bunch of teenagers. It’s not like they’ve had a lot of conversations in the last week. Well, at least conversations that don’t consist of Jared mocking Marcus and Marcus getting all huffy and offended.

Jared’s probably overdue to say something snarky right now, now that he thinks about it, but between the sedative of the heat and the way he’s bridging comfortably full and maybe shouldn’t have eaten that last slice, he can’t muster up the energy. Besides, as much as he hates to admit it, this is actually helpful info, considering he’s going to be dealing with it himself. Not the whole future of the franchise thing, and not the Flames specifically, probably, as much as he’d love that, but similar enough.

Marcus winds down after a slice of his own, and they settle into a silence that’s weirdly comfortable. Jared doesn’t like silence, as a rule, it works fine for him when he’s alone, but it drags on like torture if he’s with other people. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t mind it right now. The heat and the grease have got to have something to do with it.

“This is nice,” Marcus says, breaking the long stretch of silence, and Jared hums agreement.

This is feeling kind of date-like. Maybe a lot date-like. For fuck’s sake, it’s practically a picnic, if you’re willing to count ‘blanket on grass’ and ‘food’ as the only necessities, which — yeah, this is basically a picnic. 

No. Shut up Jared. It’s pizza, not like, champagne and dainty sandwiches or whatever picnics are supposed to be like. The blanket’s just to keep their asses from getting grass-stained or whatever. The pizza place didn’t have anywhere to sit and eat, so they had to find somewhere else. It’s not a fucking picnic, and it sure as hell isn’t a fucking date. 

He’s kind of mad at Raf for putting that idea in his head in the first place. More mad at himself, because he can’t stop thinking about it, all hyperfocused on the centimetre of distance between their knees, Marcus’ legs outstretched beside Jared’s crossed legs, so close that it’s inevitable that —

Marcus’ bare knee nudges against his when he shifts his weight, just a brush of heat before it moves away, and Jared swallows hard, feeling the echo of it linger on his skin.

Aw fuck, Jared _likes_ him.

Or like, obviously he doesn’t like him, he’s a douche, but he’s…objectively not unattractive, and _fuck_. The stupid litany in his head about a date is because he _wants_ it to be one. 

How is he just realising this now? And why the hell does he even want it to be one? This is Bryce goddamn Marcus, who seemed to come into camp with the sole goal of earning the title of ‘worst coach and most obnoxious human’, who seems like the kind of guy to do a double take every time he passes a mirror then practice his grin, and who, at least according to the internet, does the whole one night stand thing with hot women who like his hockey or whatever.

Jared’s emphatically not the kind of person who’s interested in that kind of thing. Like, women, obviously, but also the whole hookup thing. Like, this would be his first date. If it was one. Which it obviously isn’t. Marcus tries to show off or be nice or whatever he’s doing right now, and Jared’s sitting here making it a goddamn date in his head, just because that grin Marcus probably practiced a thousand times is actually pretty attractive.

He’s feeling really young right now. Young and stupid.

“I should head home,” Jared says abruptly.

“You got curfew or something?” Marcus says, and Jared can’t even say yes because who the hell would have curfew at like dinner time on a Friday? 

“Seriously?” Jared asks. “Curfew? I’m pretty sure I moved past ‘be home by dinner’ when I was eleven.”

Marcus shrugs. “My mom was crazy strict about curfew,” he says. “I dunno. You have plans?”

“No,” Jared says, then realises how it sounds. It’s weird, because he’s had zero compunction about calling Marcus out on his shit, but now he feels kind of like a jerk.

“I mean, if you want to go I’m obviously not going to keep you here,” Marcus mumbles.

“No, it’s—” Jared says, feeling like even more of a jerk now, then, inanely. “It’s nice out.”

“Yeah,” Marcus says, and Jared shuts his eyes against the glare of sunlight when Marcus’ leg nudges his again.

They stay out until the sun starts sinking for real, shadows crawling over Marcus’ face, the sunglasses he definitely doesn’t need anymore but is still wearing. Jared wonders what colour his eyes are, doesn’t think he’s ever looked him in the eye long enough to notice, and it’s not exactly the kind of question you can ask.

He takes them off for the drive back to the arena, which is actually pretty nice now that Jared’s gotten over the whole fear of death thing. Jared catches his eye in the rearview mirror. Blue. Like, really blue.

Maybe it’s safer to just watch the the scenery fly by.

“So uh,” Jared says, when Marcus pulls into the parking lot, empty except for Jared’s mom’s car. “Thanks for the pizza and stuff?”

“Yeah, no worries,” Marcus says. Jared doesn’t know if he’s imagining it or something, but he looks kind of cagey. Of course, if this was all going to end with Marcus killing him, this isn’t exactly the place to do it. He would have had more luck at the park. Not a _lot_ more luck, but like. Better than spitting distance from the arena they’ve been going to for weeks. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

“Uh,” Jared says, bites back the ‘what’ that wants to come out next. “Was going to just chill, probably play video games or something. Why?”

“I’m hitting the gym basically the second the sun’s up, stuck there all day,” Marcus says, and Jared wonders if he realises that’s not exactly some huge brag when you’re talking to another hockey player before he follows it up with, “But, uh. Have you seen Age of Ultron? We could grab some dinner after I’m done, maybe go see it?”

Jared has, actually, saw it the day it opened with his family for Monthly Matheson Bonding Night. “That’d be okay,” he says, instead of saying that. “I mean, if you’re paying. Since you’re the quote unquote millionaire, and I’m the dude who still gets an allowance.” 

Two allowances, in fact, and he’s kind of missing the stipend the Hitmen throw his way during the season right now. A movie would blow his weekly budget all by itself, and that’s if he doesn’t get popcorn. And what even is the point without popcorn?

Marcus grins. “I can pay,” he says.

“Nothing pretentious for dinner,” Jared says. “And I want popcorn too.”

“Obviously,” Marcus says.

“Okay,” Jared says. “So, um. Tomorrow?”

“Pick you up around five-thirty?” Marcus asks. “Just gimme your address.”

“Yeah,” Jared says. “That works.” 

He realises on his drive home that he’s going to have to figure out how to get everyone out of the house, or at least make sure they’re occupied with other things when Marcus shows up, or he’s going to get a whole ‘how did you not mention you are hanging out with a Calgary Flame?’ thing, and he doesn’t even know _why_ this is happening, so he’s ill-prepared to deal with that conversation, but sure, that works.

And seriously, why _is_ it happening? No matter how many times he runs it through his head it doesn’t make sense. Makes even less sense than offering to take him for a ride, because at least that Jared thought could be flaunting his wealth or whatever. You don’t exactly do that going to a movie or something, unless you buy the damn theatre out.

So maybe the dude’s so desperate for friends he’s latched onto _Jared_ , of all fucking people. It’s not like he has a sparkling personality. But then, neither does Jared, so that doesn’t sound particularly plausible.

Honestly, nothing he can think of sounds particularly plausible. Who the hell thought _Bryce Marcus_ would be a mystery?

Jared’s so confused. He didn’t even _like_ Age of Ultron. And yet he agreed to go to a movie he didn’t like, with a guy he definitely doesn’t like, because what? His smile is kind of nice and his eyes are really blue and Jared knows what hockey player’s bodies look like, and having one of his own doesn’t negate the attractiveness factor of it? Those are the dumbest reasons in the world.

Here he’s been, spending literal years smugly watching teammates make complete fools out of themselves over girls who are obviously uninterested, and now he’s agreeing to go to a movie with a guy that could feature as the definition of straight bro. Jared thought he was better than this. Apparently he just wasn’t sufficiently interested in anyone to make a fool of himself. 

And he _is_ making a fool of himself. Not enough that Marcus has appeared to notice, but the guy doesn’t strike Jared as the most perceptive person. Raf’s definitely noticed. Raf noticed, like, weeks ago. Practically day one. Marcus just gets within five feet and Jared starts running his mouth and basically doing everything wrong.

 _When did you figure it out?_ Jared texts Raf when he gets home, just to see how fucking mortified he should be.

 _that it was a date?_ Raf texts back.

 _It wasn’t a date_ , Jared texts. 

_what’d you do?_

_Hung out at a park and ate pizza_ , Jared texts.

 _that sounds a lot like my first date with grace_ , Raf texts, and Jared proceeds to ignore his phone, because if Raf’s going to be useless there’s no point talking to him about it.

 _if you didn’t mean about the date what did you mean?_ , he finds waiting for him the next morning, along with, _that you liked him?_ , and _if that’s what you mean, probably when he asked you to go on a ride on mon_.

Great. Jared has his answer on just how long he’s unknowingly been making a fool of himself, and the answer is _most of the week_.

 _Please kill me_ , Jared says, then decides he’s going right back to bed.

Except then he remembers he’s got a not-date with Marcus in eight hours, and sleep’s suddenly completely out of the question.


End file.
